Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind, Around the weather-worn, grey church, low down the vale: The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale; The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined; Old Saints by long-dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed: There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale, Still in their golden vesture the old Saints prevail; Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind. Only one ancient Priest offers the Sacrifice, Murmuring holy Latin immemorial: Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice, In grey, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical: To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice Melancholy remembrances and vesperal. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MOUNTAIN VALLEY by MALCOLM COWLEY IN QUEST by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LET ME NOT HATE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO A MAN WORKING HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD by MARIANNE MOORE REMBRANDT TO REMBRANDT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |